


Love's Not Time's Fool Part I Ch.6

by kinfic2



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-22 06:18:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinfic2/pseuds/kinfic2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"These are the times that try men's souls." T.Paine<br/>One year post-513</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love's Not Time's Fool Part I Ch.6

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_“The dream police, they live inside of my head. The dream police, they come to me in my bed._  
_And when I fall asleep, I don’t think I’ll survive the night.”_ _©R. Nielsen_  
  
  
He stood alone, his frame illuminated by a creamy white disc in an inky black sky. Shafts of light spilled across the water like an ice mirror, the gleam a reflection of the moon itself.  
  
Despite the tranquility, his skin crawled with foreboding. The suffocating stillness clawed at his throat, making it impossible to breathe. Everything was too quiet. He rubbed his hands over his arms to ward off a sudden chill. Nothing to worry about, he told himself and turned back to the man floating on the sea of glass. His throat tightened as he drifted away without a ripple, one with the water. _Away._  
  
From the safety of the dock, he yelled at him to come back but there was no soothing swish or gentle splash of comfort. There was nothing. He heard nothing other than his own panicked echo bouncing off the shadows.  
  
He clutched his hair in desperation. He had to get him. He could do it. Seized with a deadly terror, he reached out, hoarsely begging him to take his hand. Why wasn’t he listening? He leaned over the edge and perilously suspended his body. Muscles quivering from the effort, he extended his arm, pleading with him to grasp his outstretched fingers. So close. Just a little more...  
  
His blood-curdling scream pierced the murky darkness as he fell. With an aching sense of loss, he uttered his name like a prayer and tumbled into a black oblivion. Alone.  
  
                                                                      “Like drops of water in an endless sea, all my dreams pass before my eyes.  
                                                                        Nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky. All your money won't another minute buy." E.Benet  
       
                                                                                                           ****  
   
       Brian jolted awake, drenched in sweat, frantically searching the room for reassurance it was just a dream. The pain was too real, too potent. For several seconds, he lay trembling until he choked out a laugh, the strangled sound a mixture of self-deprecating ridicule and amazement.  
  
       He hated his dreams. Hated his nightmares even more. He would never admit that both petrified him—because he knew they meant something. But he could never bring himself to go down that road, too afraid of what was hiding in the underbelly of his dysfunctional psyche. He had to laugh.  Alex Wilder would like nothing better than to probe his head, among other places, to find out what made Brian Kinney tick.  
  
      While waiting for his heart to stop hammering, he sneaked a look at the clock. He had barely closed his eyes. Great, just great. Despite the ungodly hour and minimum amount of sleep, he desperately needed coffee. He raked a shaky hand through his hair and called room service for a pot.  
  
      He glanced at his suitcase. Needing to avoid a self-absorbed pit of internality, he tried to distract himself by unpacking. Undecided what to wear, he brought more than one outfit, choosing each with care. After laying his clothes on the bed, he contemplated the display. He was mulling his choices when a knock on the door reminded him of the necessity for caffeine.  
  
      The freshly brewed coffee and enticing aroma worked its magic. The tight coil unwound, enabling him to view the careless pile with a more discerning eye. He didn’t want to be subtle, but he didn’t want to be flashy. He wanted a combination of elegant affluence and edgy flamboyance. Most important, he wanted to be irresistible. His brows knotted in concentration, he settled on the exquisitely cut Armani suit, Dolce & Gabbana shirt, and hand made Italian shoes, then added the ruby red silk pocket square for panache.  
  
      Satisfied at last, he finished the coffee and climbed back into bed, hoping exhaustion would overtake his overactive brain for a few hours. He was asleep in seconds.  
  
                                                                                                           ****  
  
     After a quick shower, Justin towelled off and squeezed paste onto his toothbrush. He dangled it in midair. Why was he thinking about what to wear? It was so unlike him. A frustrated puff of air fogged up the mirror. He ran a hand across the wet surface and stared at his distorted reflection. Of course, he knew why. His indecision pissed him off, but he couldn’t help but smirk. Brian would be pleased he gave _any_ thought to his wardrobe.  
  
     No! He would not second-guess himself or his fucking wardrobe. He brushed his teeth with grim determination. He wasn’t going to be sidetracked, regardless who was coming.  
  
                                 “So are you coming or going? Or coming and then going? Or coming and staying?”  
  
Fuck! Get out of my head!  He strode toward his closet, peevishly tempted to wear a flannel and t-shirt with sneakers. But adult reason won out over sophomoric rebellion. Who was he kidding? His shoulders slumping in resignation, he decided on Sofia’s much too expensive birthday gift—ass-hugging jeans and white button-down linen shirt. He ran a brush through his hair and looked in the mirror, pleased with the results. She knew her stuff.  
  
     He wandered through the dingy apartment, taking in the peeling paint and grimy windows layered with months of dreams and fantasies. It was all he could afford. He showered and slept here and sometimes even fucked here. On rare occasions, he even managed to cook a meal. But he didn't _live_ here. He existed. What did Brian say to Ethan? “There’s nothing noble about being poor.” He didn’t get it then. Funny how your perspective can change, he mused.         
  
     After turning both keys in their respective locks, he gave the door handle a precautionary jiggle, then slung the strap of his messenger bag over his head. He hurried down the dimly lit hall, trying not to expect too much from the evening, but the butterflies in his stomach wouldn’t stop. This could be the _real_ start of his professional career. Taking the stairs two at a time, he disregarded the nagging voice that countered 'Yeah, so what?'  
  


**Continue here:** [http://archiveofourown.org/works/947064 ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/947064%20)


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